


Your pubes are cute

by lawlipoppie



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: A little smutty, Classical cliche shit, M/M, Masturbation, Nudes :D, not too much tho
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-25
Updated: 2018-10-25
Packaged: 2019-08-07 08:12:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16404632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lawlipoppie/pseuds/lawlipoppie
Summary: Kyeongsu sends an accidental nude to his boss. Boss replies with photography critique.





	Your pubes are cute

**Author's Note:**

> I didn't reread this, i wanted it done, not great, pls be lenient with me >.<
> 
> ON THE OTHER HAND I MISSED KSU SO MUCH MY BELOVED POV CHARACTER I LOVE U

Kyeongsu’s shirt is still buttoned. All the way. The silken leash is still on. The night is deep. It’s way past the time he should’ve been home. He doesn’t remember what hour that is, but what he knows is that his place smells musty, of prolonged absence and vanishment. It also smells of the laundry he has to do tomorrow. Of the laundry that sat in the hamper for over a week, now overspilling onto the floor. It’s the same button shirts, the same slacks, same size, same material, just duplicates of Kyeongsu’s day skin bought in bulk. At sundown, he moults, and peels off the salaryman membrane off himself, and is left in just his own raw, exposed flesh.

Kyeongsu looks away from the hamper. He undoes the first few buttons of his shirt, pulls at his tie, and drops onto the couch. His legs clatter together, his back pops, unhinges, breaks, scatters, his shoulders flow over the curvature of the thick arm rest, malform, his nape tenses, smarts, encourages the headache that has a permanent residence between his ears. He sighs. Then he sighs once more. He doesn’t have to hold himself up anymore. He can just thaw out onto the cushions.  

He looks up. Ah. He forgot to buy a new lightbulb. Again. Has it been a month. Or two. Or was three. Or was it never there. All he has is the light from the hallway, petering in a frail, bisque wash over the noir of the night. It’s enough. It’s more than enough.

He undoes one more button. His shirt smells too. Of paperwork and agitation. He’s besmeared in the miasma of the office, and he brought it here to mix with his putrid loneliness.

Kyeongsu pulls the shirt open all the way. He lets it hang along his sides. He toes off his socks. A tiny battle that ends with his victory, the two stinky socks pushed over the edge and onto the floor to their demise. He will deal with them tomorrow. When he  _ will _ do the laundry.

But for now…for now it’s too late to do much, it’s too early to sleep. It’s too late to talk to someone new, it’s too early for shallowness. And he doesn’t like the idea of work being the end of his day. He doesn’t like there being nothing in between him coming home and going to sleep. It shouldn’t be like that.

He has things to do, if he truly thinks about. Things that take a few minutes each. Wash the remaining dishes in the sink, take his vitamins because he’s been skipping them too often, order another set of bedsheets because they’ve gotten worn to the point of translucence. It feels like gauze. Kyeongsu is getting mummified in his sleep.

But Kyeongsu’s doesn’t feel like doing anything. He’s drained. His body might have strength, but he has no will to move it. He’s drained and he’s light, as though empty, as though dry of spirit, so all he has is the vacant osseous scaffolding of his person.

This is a familiar feeling. A never ending feeling.

He’s doesn’t remember the last time he really felt...nice. Any kind of nice. The coffee he’s had today was bad, both over extracted and insufficient. The food too – salty, so salty, too salty. The commute too long – it always takes the same amount of time, but he didn’t catch a seat on the subway, and his already aching feet just ached even more. The tea that was served in the one-on-one meeting he had with his supervisor was old and sallow and he was offered no sugar. The project his team has been working on didn’t turn out well as it was expected – they didn’t get berated, but not congratulated either. He missed the shows he wanted to watch because he had to stay behind, and help the new intern with a few problems. His landlord called, said the rent didn’t arrive into his account this month, and he had to quarrel with the clerk at the bank all through his lunch break.

All day, every day, all week, every week, all month, every month, all year, every year, all—

Looking back on it, he really can’t remember when he truly had a pleasure to himself.  

A small one, not a big one. At a large scale, he has nothing to complain – his skills and his career are going forward. He doesn’t have to worry about money anymore. His colleagues are nice, very nice. His family is well, is close, is healthy, is happy.

But the little things. Where are the good little things. Kyeongsu is needy, needy of little, diminutive gratifications.

Right now he could order himself something – a food that is expensive, that is reserved for special occasions – but he’s sated, doesn’t crave anything. He could watch one of the movies he has on his list. He could draw himself a bath, and soak, and have a drink – a classical, fanciful technique of self-pampering. And he could masturbate. Masturbate. He doesn’t remember when he did that last either. How far away is it from his mind that it didn’t even make it to the top of this list. But this sounds good. He would like this. Masturbate. Just plain and simple.

But that’s a bit boring, lacking. Has a bit of a bitter aftertaste for it only serves to remind him it is a pleasure he has no one to share with. He doesn’t want or need to share many things in life, but even though sexually he feels somewhat self-sufficient, to him, the fundament of it dictates that it is an act meant for two.

Kyeongsu is just one. He counts himself. One. No second Kyeongsu around. No second anyone around.

The fridge begins whirring. It’s not an organism he could have intercourse with, but it is the only other thing that seems to be alive in his house. The fridge.

Kyeongsu snorts, and just puts a hand over his crotch. He’s going with that. His dick is there. A little, squishy mound of disinterest. His hand is lonely. And his dick is lonely. They match well. Take advantage of one another.

This is not the answer. Not truly. Not fully. He doesn’t know what he’s missing the most, what he needs the most. But it’s good for a proxy, for a little stand in to an issue that is bigger. It’s still ignorable now, but it will grow until it won’t be ignorable anymore. Kyeongsu will worry about that then.

Kyeongsu touches himself. An abbreviated back and forth with the heel of his palm over pants. He spreads his fingers wide, gathers, squeezes. Quite harshly. Quite inattentively, as he would after being aroused for a while, after heavy foreplay. But this is all on flaccidity, on dryness. This is skipping all of that, for he has no partner, and no care, neither for himself or for anyone else. He unzips, wiggles his ass for his pants to slide down, and jumps right into crude stimulation, rubbing his length over his boxers. He will get orgasm that is rudimentary, insulated, a small load, superficial shocks. Lacking. Just lacking. Barely spreading above his crotch, barely reaching anywhere.

And that is usually good enough.

It should be good enough now too.

Kyeongsu looks down. He pulls at the band of his underwear. He pulls his cock out. It doesn’t seek to get out, doesn’t spring up. Kyeongsu has to gather its soft form and bring it out. He nearly feels bad for taking it out of its cosy hermitage – from his angle, it even seems like it is pouting, head flopping down dejectedly. He gives it an apologetic jerk. Then another one, and another one, and another one, until it stiffens with enthusiasm, and Kyeongsu bites his lip to prevent a moan that will never come. He never feels good enough by himself to moan. But it adds to the experience to think at least at some point, perhaps in the summit of it, he will enjoy it enough to kill the silence.

He’s not jerking off to porn – a predilection that ceased the moment he stepped out of adolescence. He’s relying on his imagination now. Just fantasies, nondescript, blurry, no foreground, no background, no continuance. After going through all the kinky, lurid scenarios, he always ends up at the a simple one: just being wanted. Him arching being a beautiful sight to someone. Kyeongsu isn’t that pretty. A body built in the office, with his lifestyle, isn’t a harmonious one. The blend of plumpness and scrawniness is disjoined, enabling inelegance and asymmetry. He won’t make anyone mad with his body. But the reaction of it, the sensuousness, the pliancy. Kyeongsu imagines someone liking that, being inveigled by that.

Kyeongsu imagines feeling amazing. He’s pushing his hips into his hand now, which feels far from amazing, but he imagines feeling amazing. He imagines liking a sensation so much that he has to fight curling away from it. He thinks about another pair of hands, a kiss, caresses and bruises. He thinks about a dick in his mouth, in his ass.

He has none of this, but this imaginary pleasure is strong enough that Kyeongsu has to bite his lip once more.

He’s close. This soon, he’s close. It feels like his dick isn’t even fully hard.

Kyeongsu squeezes himself. He doesn’t want it to end this way. He wants a bit more. He wants something more.

His phone is on the coffee table, an arm stretch away. He grabs it and takes the pic. Effortless. Thoughtless. It’s a proclamation, a notification, more than a piece of enticement. He didn’t take two or three pictures. He took just one. He didn’t even adjust his position, his hand on his cock left just where it was, his pants bunched messily mid-thigh, his stomach bracketed by his open shirt. Good enough, he deems, glancing at it. He tries to not judge his physique. His attractiveness. For tonight, it is better that he doesn’t descend into the claws of insecurity. It is good enough.

He sends it.

Kyeongsu knows why he is alone – because he prioritizes other matters over this. Because he’s a bit a romantic at heart and love should be accidental, a serendipitous happenstance, the florescence of an unguided collision. Or an upgraded acquaintance, built upon a years-worth foundation of attachment. It shouldn’t be triggered by a chase, and most certainly not by pick up on a dating slash hook up app.  

Kyeongsu met this guy exactly in such a hellhole – on a no-name, low traffic dating app. They sexted. They exchanged pics. All Kyeongsu knows about him is that he lives at the farthest edge of the country from him and that he would particularly love to have Kyeongsu’s ‘thick’ lips around his cock. The last they’ve spoken, which was nearly three weeks ago, they exchanged numbers too, so they weren’t dependent on the glitchy app anymore. It is some sort of progress. Or regress. Kyeongsu can’t tell. What he can tell is that he doesn’t find it thrilling at all.

The pic is sent. Kyeongsu yawns. It’s late enough for a nude to be appropriate. He keeps his hand on his cock. Just two fingers doing a little rub under the glans. It does nothing now, his orgasm having retreated completely, but it keeps his hand occupied.

His glasses are on the table too. He reaches for them and puts them on. They’re dirty. And they slide down his nose. Because it’s greasy. Very very greasy. Kyeongsu doesn’t need them clean, has no use for clarity right now. At least he didn’t forgo taking his contacts out as soon as he got home. His eyes are so dry that it hurts both to have them open and to close them.

Kyeongsu opens his email, because it’s reflex, and because he’s stupid. Of course the presentation needs to be redone,  _ that’s a horrific font, Kyeongsu, I don’t know how to read anymore  _ – does Minseok know how  _ not _ to be an ass. Kyeongsu pulls at his cock, sighs, and switches back to the messaging app, back to the cybernetic, pathetic, to-be fap session that—

Oh.

He sent it to ‘Bakhyun’. Kyeongsu squints and reads it again. It says ‘Bakhyun’. Crisply.

Who the fuck is Bakhyun. He doesn’t remember the name of the guy clearly, and while he’s sure it’s very similar to Bakhyun, he doesn’t think it’s quite Bakhyun.

So who is Bakhyun.

Kyeongsu runs through all the people he knows casually, because this is a contact he has never texted with. His barber. The guy who usually delivers his packages. Some neighbour. Some new co-worker. Kyeongsu takes each person in turn from work and—

It’s his boss. It’s the CEO.

Bakhyun. Because typo. Because this number got into his phone at a big hoesik, when Kyeongsu, drunk off his ass, was designated with find a driver for him, and then checking up on him once he reached home. He did. Then he whined a chirpy, slurry  _ thank you Kyeongsuuuuuuuuu  _ into his ear before the line went dead. That’s the only time they ever communicated with each other through personal phones _. _

He sent the nude to Baekhyeon. To fucking Byeon Baekhyeon.

His glasses slide all the way down his nose, squeezing his nostrils. He can’t breathe, he can’t see.

Kyeongsu takes them off, takes his hand off his cock, locks the phone, puts it down on the table, turns around, and smushes his face into the arm rest.

Where is that resume again. Does he have to reprint it. Put there the five years working for the Starlight Enterprise as a team manager. Experience. Money. Stress. What was that really nice site for jobs called again? Kyeongsu remembered basically camping in there. It was his second home for a long, arduous period of unemployment. How much is in his bank account. How many months of rent does that cover. How much food can he demand from his family meanwhile.

But he’s so calm. The smoothest, swiftest instalment of it. He has all the intention to just sleep on the couch. If this is over, then it’s over. Just like this.

Kyeongsu breathes out. Couch air, dust and mites and whatever nasty shit is in there because he doesn’t remember the last time he vacuumed it. This is fine. It’s okay. It’ll be fine. He didn’t love his job anyway. Though Kyeongsu probably won’t love any of the jobs that will ever be in his line of expertise. So he will find another job that he doesn’t love just like this one. It’s fine. 

He wiggles around, his cock trapped underneath himself. It’s still hard. The little fucker is still hard even in this situation. He reaches for it and gives it a short, lax tug. It doesn’t even feel good. It just…feels.

But maybe.  _ Maybe _ . Maybe Baekhyeon doesn’t know who the picture is from.

He has no reason to add Kyeongsu’s name to his contacts. That one call doesn’t warrant it. And he was drunk that night, most likely he didn’t think of adding him. And asides that, all the times Baekhyeon needed him, he got called by his secretaries. That’s why he has four of them. So he doesn’t need to call anyone personally. So he doesn’t need Kyeongsu’s number.

Which means it might be an anonymous dick. He doesn’t know whose dick it could be. They never asked for dick identification in the employee records, so there would be no dick recognition from Baekhyeon.

Kyeongsu inhales some more dusty mites, jumps, and picks up his phone. He opens the picture.

His name card is visible. His name card, which contains his name. And the company logo. Just there on his chest, right at the margin of the image. Out of focus, but unmistakable.

Because of  _ fucking _ course Kyeongsu thought of taking his necktie off, undoing his shirt, pulling his pants down, but not remove the goddamn name card. Name card that is currently slicing the side of his chest with its stiff plastic corners. If he bleeds to death from this cut, it’s also fine. So very fine.

Kyeongsu smushes his face back into the cushion of the couch. At least that doesn’t mutilate his face. He kind of needs a face to get another job. Nobody hires people without a face. But if he dies now, he won’t need a new job either. Dead people don’t go to work. God, Kyeongsu  _ can’t wait. _ So he smushes his face into the cushion of the couch  _ properly _ .

And stays. And waits. And pulls at his cock here and there. And does anything else but  _ think _ . And stays some more. And waits some more. Pulls at his cock some more. He’s still not thinking.

His phone pings.

Kyeongsu  _ extra _ smushes his face.

He grabs it. Breathes out. It could very well be just another email from Minseok - this dude doesn’t know how to say all he has to say in just one, he thinks its texting or something, why the serial emails,  _ what the hell.  _ It could be him complaining about the font colour this time. Kyeongsu picked an awful colour. Like aqua blue or something. He picked a really awful colour _ , Minseok, please complain about it, you can’t leave that un-complained about. _

It’s Bakhyun.

He’s not even drunk. He’s sober, if this level of exhaustion and debilitation can be considered sobriety. He needs something. He knows he has one bottle of cider in the fridge. He should get drunk now. He can’t handle this as in this state.

But the fridge is far away. And there is no salvation for Kyeongsu anyway.

He opens it.

_ Turn on the light, and take it again. _

Kyeongsu stares. He really has to clean his glasses, for he’s reading some ludicrous shit right now. He wipes them with this shirt. Puts them back on. The grime is still there, but now in a homogenous film all over the lens instead of in greasy splotches. Which is marginally better.

And the text still says what it says.

Kyeongsu, finally, truly, panics.

Quick maths now. Given the calibre of this fuck up is no less than humongous, he has to calculate his options.

First of all, this is maybe, probably, a sex offense. He’s not sure. And he’s afraid to check. But this reply is not from someone who seems to be sexually offended. At all. So Kyeongsu is kind of sure that at least he’s not getting sued.

And if he’s getting sued. Well. Then he’s done for, because Baekhyeon went to court a few times over some mistreatments and he won all of his cases. And by won it means the offender got completely obliterated.

The bright side about this is that he doesn’t need a new job if he’s going to prison. Or if Baekhyeon turns him into dust. Kyeongsu doesn’t need a job either if he’s dust.

So putting this issue aside, Kyeongsu could ignore it. Truly ignore it. Delete it from his phone, change his number, go into work Monday morning pretending none of this happened. It will be sketchy, and difficult to pull off because Kyeongsu isn’t the most spectacular liar, but he will manage given these are desperate times.

But given the tone of Baekhyeon reply, that might not work at all. And this method will only make it worse.

Though, he can’t get fired-er than this. That is, if he’s fired at all. If at this stage he’s not fired, he might cause it both by obeying and not obeying the suggestion.

He could play along with Baekhyeon’s askance and incriminate himself even more.

Or he could go against it and  _ possibly _ upset him, because while Baekhyeon is a lenient boss, the one thing he hates the most is when his orders aren’t obeyed.

So he should turn on the light, and take it again.

But Kyeongsu’s heart is racing. Is flipping, haywire in his chest, his breath shorn, his palms clammy. Of a fear. And not the right kind of fear for this circumstance. But a fear rooted in something delicate and arduous and a little caustic. Something that shouldn’t be allowed to concretize.

Kyeongsu swallows, sighs, twists, smushes his face.

He will send  _ another _ nude. Because he can’t get fired-er than this and because he owns up to his mistakes. So he will send another nude.

Light. He doesn’t have a light in here to turn on. But he can turn himself around. The light from the hallway is strong enough on the other side. Kyeongsu shifts, the messy clothing on himself rustling overloud in the quiescence of the room. He takes the name card off. He throws it far away. Like it's its fault for Kyeongsu being in this mess right now instead of his own. They both have some faults.

He mirrors the position he had previously. His cock has softened. Not completely soft. Though neglected for a while, there is a chaotic kind of thrill in him that has kept it piqued. 

However, Kyeongsu doesn’t touch himself more. He tries not to overthink it again. Make it just as effortless as the last one.

The picture is grainy. While his form and the hills of it are much more illuminated, the camera of his phone can’t offer high quality results in such low, artificial luminance. The contrast is stronger though, and the saturation higher.

He can’t tell if it’s really better or not. But it is what it is.

He snaps five pictures. Twisting a little. Not more of him is visible this time. Not more of his legs, not more of his chest, not more of his crotch.

Kyeongsu picks one of them at random.

He doesn’t have to send it. He  _ can _ not send it.  

But he.

Kind of wants to.

Underneath all the emotions roaming his venters, somewhere at the bottom, there’s curiosity too. He’s curious why Baekhyeon respond like this. He’s curious where this will go.

He doesn’t have much to lose anymore. At this point.

So he sends it. He just sends it.

Kyeongsu locks his phone and puts it on his chest. He sighs. Again. More and more bits of his soul leaving his mouth.

He’s facing the fridge now. He should really go grab that cider. To go or not to go. To get drunk or not to get drunk.

Maybe not now. If he is getting sued, he needs to be sober for the news to hit him. And then he can get drunk.

His hand is on his cock. Doing nothing. Kyeongsu grabs it. Massages it in its squiggly, mildly mushy state. It gets hard slowly and Kyeongsu pouts. He can’t even use his cock as a stress ball anymore. His stress cock failed him.

He can’t think about Baekhyeon’s response as long as he’s aroused though. He channels all his focus into it. And it works. It works until a tiny drop of precome glistens at the tip. Finally, some precome.

Before Kyeongsu gets to smear it down his cock, the phone pings.

It’s Minseok complaining about the aqua blue font.

Kyeongsu looks at the screen.

It’s not Minseok.

_ It’s out of focus,  _ the message says.  Baekhyeon says.

Is it out of focus. Kyeongsu’s eyes themselves are out of focus, for while his glasses help, his prescription changed, and he didn’t bother renewing them. He takes a closer look at the pictures. All of them are, indeed, out of focus.

His cock is hard now compared to the previous one. He takes ten shots, seven of which are focusing precisely on the faint glisten of the head. Same position, same light. But in focus.

He hesitates again, measuring, pondering his actions, before he decides yet again that nothing matters anymore.

So he sends it.

So he sends it, puts the phone down on his chest, wonders all over again whether to get up for the cider or not, tugs at his cock. The same sequence of ticks, just to keep the agitation at bay.

The fridge stops whirring. The apartment falls completely silent.There isn’t even the sound of traffic.

Kyeongsu is jittery.

His phone pings.

_ Turn yourself more to the side. Pull your pants lower. Arch your back. _

Kyeongsu face burns. And it’s not because of all the smushing. He covers it with his clammy palm, looking to cool it. It doesn’t work.

Through his fingers, he peeks again at the words. The phrasing of it is so formal. Demanding. He didn’t omit any periods. It’s exactly how he talks. Because while firm, he isn’t stern, he isn’t cold. They’re smiley demands. They’re endearing, but undisputable demands.

So this game will go on.

Kyeongsu positions himself. Brings his knees in a little, twists to the side, as instructed. Pulls his pants and underwear lower, smoothing them down so they lay overtop each other tidily. He arches his back, pushes his hips up. And shifts. And shifts until to his eyes, it looks kind of good.

Before taking the first pic, he adjusts his cock, so it’s not the centrepiece, and the composition is more homogenous. He takes another set of ten, all of them in focus, all of them having his back arched in different degrees. One of them has his hand over his crotch, just shy of his cock.

He sends that one.

Kyeongsu waits. He bites his lip. He’s nervous. He’s…anticipative. He thinks this one isn’t so bad. Maybe Baekhyeon likes it. Maybe he’s pleased.

He fills in time by playing with himself. Just with his balls, cupping, rolling, motions that bring very little to his arousal. He turns the phone over, so it’s facing up.

He waits for it to light up with a notification. He should get that cider. He waits. He waits. He pinches at the saggy, crinkled skin of his balls. He waits.

It pings.

_ Turn on your side. Fold a leg over the other. I want to see your ass. _

“ _ Fuck _ ,” Kyeongsu whispers, letting the phone fall. It hits his chin, then flops painfully on his sternum.

So this is a sexual thing. Kyeongsu didn’t take it like that, despite how crudely lewd it is in its essence. It seemed like it was only about shaming Kyeongsu’s atrocious nude-taking skills. It was about bettering them. Or about making fun of them.

But it’s not.

Baekhyeon is asking to see more of him, to see him  _ better _ .

_ I want to see your ass. _

Kyeongsu rereads that until it doesn’t make sense anymore. Baekhyeon wants to see his ass.

Kyeongsu has never been this turned on in his life. His thighs press together, lift, cage his cock. It’s throbbing. Just from this.

He follows the instructions at once. He wants to do good. To show him what he wants to see. He curls, pivots, nearly being on his stomach to catch as much of his ass as possible. He pulls at his cheeks too. Presses the digits of his free hand into the highest, softest part of it, to demonstrate how much squish there is, how much springiness. If only he could catch the jiggle on camera too.

He sends one of these – whole palm on his ass, squeezing and pulling, legs crossed, back arched.

Kyeongsu closes his eyes. His cock is still throbbing. It’s distracting. It’s pleasant. He waits, playing with his ass, fingers dipping to his hole idly. It just tickles. He will finger fuck himself another time. Soon though. He hasn’t done it in a while. And he loves it. He gives it a few more swipes, light, barely there, and takes his hand away. And waits. 

_ Kneel. Part your legs. _

Part your legs part your legs part your legs part your legs part your—

Kyeongsu is dizzy. He jumps to the fridge. He grabs that damn cider, breaks the cap pen over the edge of the table. His pants fall to the floor. He pulls off his shirt and underwear too. And his socks. So he’s fully naked. Finally.

He downs the whole bottle. He has just one. And it’s small. He won’t get drunk from this, but he will get a slight alteration. Which he needs.

Before getting back on the couch, Kyeongsu decides to move it. Push it more towards the hallway, more into the light. If he’s going to be spreading his legs for Baekhyeon, might as well make it a good shot.

Kyeongsu kneels, presents himself. Turns until shadows fall where they should, until the highlights gathers into the heights of his figure. He takes shot after shot, not counting them anymore.

But he does more than that. He tries more positions. With him touching himself, with spreading himself out, closer, farther, twisting so his waist is visible, arching so his ass is visible. Poses that have an arrestive vulgarity, that are suggestive.  

He’s enjoying this now. In multiple ways. In so many ways.

He stops after a while. A long while, perhaps. He looks through them quickly. They’re all focused, lit up, framed correctly. One of them shows him from his neck to his feet. Naked. Fully naked. And aroused as fuck.

He sends that, and another three.

Did he overstep. What is there to even overstep.

This wait seems to be longer than all the other ones. Maybe he took so long that Baekhyeon fell asleep.

Kyeongsu turns face down on the couch, puts his balled up shirt and pants underneath himself, and does a little humping. Slight. Soft. He just needs something to keep him on the edge.

And he waits. A wait that ends up shortly.

It’s two texts now.

_ Kyeongsu. _

_ You’re so hard. And so wet. Come. _

Kyeongsu gapes. Baekhyeon addressed him by name. If there was even a smidgen of doubt before that he didn’t know who it was, that’s wholly out the window now. From the get go, he knew it was Kyeongsu. And he chose to do all of this with Kyeongsu.

He asked  _ Kyeongsu _ to come.

He could do that. Kyeongsu was close for so long. He feels like it would take one single touch for him to come now.  

But he also knows it won’t happen. It’s just not right. Something about this, as enticing as it is, is off. It’s too one sided for it to be an affair involving two people. There is too much unknown to the point that there is a stark discomfort in Kyeongsu.

_ I can’t,  _ Kyeongsu responds.

His first words after ten pictures.

He’s spoken to Baekhyeon a lot. He gets out of his office often, just because he can’t stand being in there for long. He joins the teams on the rooftop, holding vending machine coffee just like everyone else, pulling everyone into conversation. Kyeongsu isn’t very good at talking but one doesn’t need to be good at talking to talk to Baekhyeon. It just happens. Easy.

But this feels bulky. Like too much. Like too close. Too personal.

No answer comes. None at all. For a while. A long while.

Kyeongsu rubs his eyes. He’s not waiting anymore.

Which is why he startles when the notification arrives.

And it’s not in a text.

Kyeongsu’s breath hitches.

It’s a nude.

He thinks it’s stolen. It must be stolen and he’s being fucked with. He could try reverse searching it.

But then there is the mole on his thumb. The same way the card incriminated Kyeongsu, the mole incriminates Baekhyeon.

It’s so beautiful. It’s gorgeous.  _ He _ is.

The light is low, subdued – and Kyeongsu nearly want scold him for it after he was nagged. But he can see everything clearly. He’s in bed. Not on the couch like Kyeongsu. But in a bed, over soft pink sheets, if it’s not a trick of the camera.

It’s teasing, too secretive to be truly racy. To be truly pornographic. It’s just a more risque description of his sensuality.

It appears nearly black and white when it’s in fact because of the low lighting. The darks and semitones are monochrome but the lights, on his skin, the pink, the warmth.

And he’s hard. Fuck, he’s hard. The shape of him is half covered by his pants, but the head is visible, wet at the tip, the venation down the shaft, the deep coloration of it. His hand is right over the base, the grip tight, fabric bunching around his fingertips.

The rest of the pic shows his torso. Just one nipple from the angle. A hardened nipple, small, ruddy. Does he play with them. Are they sensitive. Does he like them sucked, bitten.

Kyeongsu, involuntarily, guiltily, licks his lips, and looks away from his pectoral and to his tummy. Under the ribcage, it has the sink of leanness, which later rises into a slight mound of softness. His bellybutton is small too, barely a dip. His happy trail is fine, only some meek twinkles of the light catching on the hairs.

Kyeongsu never wondered about this. What Baekhyeon looked like divested. Despite seeing him in form fitting clothes on multiple occasions, he didn’t expect this. This much…prettiness. This much allure. This much lushness.  

He really sent this to Kyeongsu. He isn’t worthy.  

_ What about now?  _ Comes the text, and Kyeongsu nearly drops his phone at the sound of the notification.

Oh.  _ Oh _ .

Oh.  _ Oh _ .

Kyeongsu falls face-first into the couch, his hips up, knees apart, and touches himself. Desperate. Impatient. But slow. Dragging. It keeps building, seemingly long past the climax.

He’s close, when his phone pings again. What the. He opens it with one hand, the other still over his cock. It’s a photo. It’s a photo of his tummy. Covered in cum. Just his tummy, a few ropes of come splattered, a drop further up, and a small puddle low down, under his bellybutton.

He came. Baekhyeon came.

Kyeongsu moans. He doesn’t bite it down.

He stares at the picture as he pushes into his touch. This is a new stance, for when he’s by himself he never has any reason to disrobe fully, to spread out. He doesn’t now either. Because he’s alone, he’s still alone, but just...less. Less alone. And it feels good. It feels so good. It feeds exactly that fantasy of being wanted, and he won't care now for the sincerity of it. Because Baekhyeon came. Maybe not thinking of him, maybe not from seeing him, hell, maybe this is a set of pictures taken long ago, for someone else. But that doesn’t matter either, because Kyeongsu is feeling really fucking good.

His orgasm comes with an actual hit, a sudden onset of merciless sensations. His calf cramps, his asscheeks contract, push him downward, and he barely, just barely manages to turn himself over so he doesn’t get come on the couch but on himself instead. The shocks stretch, reach beyond the limit of his skin. He keeps jerking himself, slowly, still slowly, for he’s not spent yet.

With his other hand, he hastens to catch a shot of the last drop of come dripping from his cock. It’s so red. Kyeongsu never masturbated for so long. It feels a little tender, a little abused.

He sends it, then closes his eyes, and catches his breath. He’s actually out of breath from a solo session. He titters to himself. Did Baekhyeon just give him the best sex of his life without it even being sex.

Kyeongsu is smiling when he picks up his phone.

_ Your pubes are cute. _

Kyeongsu blushes instantly. Hard. It reaches his ears and his chest and his heart. Baekhyeon is the kind to think pubes are cute. He thinks  _ Kyeongsu’s _ pubes are cute.

And Kyeongsu never had his pubes complimented before.

His blush morphs into an effervescence and flows throughout him in circles. He just had a powerful orgasm; how did this manage to top it.

Okay, maybe they’re kinda cute pubes. Short and sparse and a little curly. Kyeongsu likes a man who likes pubes. Baekhyeon’s pubes are cute too, but cuter than them is—

_ Your cock is cute _ , Kyeongsu sends back.

It truly is the cutest cock Kyeongsu’s ever seen. The right size to be endearing, good proportion, colour, right amount of mushroomy-ness of the head. And pink. And smooth. And just. Nice. Kyeongsu scrolls up to look at it again. He coos. He wants to rub his cheek on it and give it little smooches.

_ You made it blush _

No period this time. Kyeongsu smiles.  _ You made me blush _

_ ^^ _ , comes.  _ You made me blush first _

Smiley eyes. Smiley eyes. Kyeongsu _knows_ the smiley eyes. Baekhyeon has _the_ _loveliest_ smiley eyes. And Kyeongsu made him _blush_.

Before he gets to reply though, Baekhyeon sends another text.

_ You sent this by mistake, didn’t you? _

How did he know.

Kyeongsu picks up his shirt and wipes the come on his stomach, which has gone cold. He throws it into the overflowing hamper. Then types his reply.

_ Yes. _

Not a second late:  _ Who was it for? _

Some dude with a name similar to Bakhyun.  _ I don’t even care to remember. _

_ But do you know who you sent it to? _

Kyeongsu closes his eyes.

Byeon Baekhyeon. His boss. The CEO of the company.

But he’s more than that to Kyeongsu. They know each other. They talked. They drank together. They sang together at karaoke. They went on group excursions together.

Baekhyeon is so sociable. Baekhyeon comes himself to as many gatherings as possible. Because he loves money and he loves them and he likes it best when both of these are working hand in hand. So Kyeongsu has seen him proper, in silken suits and solemnity, has seen him energetic, running from team to team to see what they’re up to, snacks in hand, has seen him relaxed, carefree, preparing breakfast in pyjamas in one of their summertime excursions.

Kyeongsu danced with him once. It was on a Valentine’s day, and they had to finish a big project, which is why they couldn’t go to their dates. After it was over, Baekhyeon gathered everyone, treated everyone, and in the name of lost dates, they had some slow couple dances. Baekhyeon picked him. Grabbed him. Swayed with him. Distantly, a little awkwardly. But his head ended up on Kyeongsu’s shoulder. He was tired too. Everyone was. As they danced, Baekhyeon whispered a little ‘thank you, Kyeongsu,’ into his ear. Kyeongsu, to this day, isn’t sure what he was being thanked for. But right after, the music changed to something upbeat. Baekhyeon smiled at him the most splendid smile Kyeongsu has ever seen.

That was the first time Kyeongsu felt his heart sinking. It was the first time all of him began to sink.

He tried to reign himself. To keep himself afloat. But from then on, he couldn’t stop noticing how dazzling he is. How fluffy his hair is. How mischievous his tone is. His endearing mannerisms. His carefulness, his kindness, his compassion. His skill. The underlying, or outright, sexiness of the power he holds, of is his intellect. Then the seductiveness of his tenderness, his youthfulness, his softness.

Kyeongsu tried so hard not to be charmed by him. He tried not to look at him with other eyes. Because there would be no point.

There is no point and yet—

_ Someone I like. _

Concretely, Kyeongsu likes no one. Can like no one. Nobody caught his eye in a long time. He doesn’t want it caught either, maybe. But the one person in his mind, the one person closest to a crush is Baekhyeon.

Unattainable, unreachable, untouchable Baekhyeon.

If Kyeongsu is fired, might as well say it. Might as well let him know. That he sees him that way. That he likes him that way. Even if it will go nowhere.

He puts the phone down and gets up. He picks up his clothes from the floor. Pushes the couch back. Trashes the empty cider bottle. Finds his name card. Will he even need this anymore now. He might as well throw it in the trash too.

But he doesn’t. Not yet.

He lingers, looking at his phone. Baekhyeon is not responding. Perhaps feelings weren’t welcome in this ordeal. Perhaps only Kyeongsu’s nudes were welcome, not himself too.

He sighs, then turns to walk towards the bathroom. He should shower and go to bed. It’s late now. Late enough to sleep.

Kyeongsu is turning on the water when his phone pings. So this is not the end. He runs towards it, nearly breaks his leg in the process, but he reaches it before the screen gets to darken.

_ Take me out to breakfast tomorrow _

Kyeongsu rubs his eyes. No glasses, no contacts, just a whole like of blurriness with a black core. He brings it closer, to see it better, to believe it.

He’s taking Baekhyeon out for breakfast tomorrow. On like. A date. Perhaps. On.  _ Something _ . He will see Baekhyeon tomorrow. After this whole fiasco. Kyeongsu doesn’t even feel ashamed about it. Or awkward. Timid, yes. Nervous, yes. Excited, yes. Hopeful,  _ yes _ .

It was surprising, befuddling, messy - a fumble of poorly transmitted gestures. But at last it was good.

_ What do you like?  _ Kyeongsu sends.

It doesn’t take a blink for the text to arrive.

_ You _

_ And eggbread _

Kyeongsu feels like screaming. Kyeongsu screams. Into his hands. He jumps in place. He smiles. He smiles through his shower. He smiles when he finds another text as he gets into bed. 

_ Good night ^^ _

Kyeongsu smiles replying _. Good night. See you tomorrow _ .

Kyeongsu smiles himself to sleep.

And the next morning, as he sits across from Baekhyeon, Kyeongsu smiles some more.

 

**Author's Note:**

> What this progresses into is some hidden office romance where they're making sappy eyes at each other aaaaaall day while they think they're keeping it secret when in fact everyone knows cause these two litol shits couldn't have been more obvious :D


End file.
